Mastering the English Language
by Roses on Thursdays
Summary: Draco sends out a letter to no one in particular. It falls into the hands of Ginny, and thus begins a string of notsolove letters. Besides, who can fall in love with a piece of paper?
1. I'll Be Your Axel If You'll be My Marie

Disclaimer for Entire Story: I do not own the characters. They are J.K. Rowling's. And everything of her imagination- if you recognize it, it's probably not mine.

Additional Disclaimer: I do not own Keats or "Ode To a Grecian Urn" or Jane Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_.

**A/N- Hey. Another over-done plot line- but I've always been dying to do the whole letter-exchange thing. So bear with me. It's a bit insane at first- but it ends up with a rhythm (awkward, but it _is _infact a rhythm). Just to let you know, it starts out with Draco and then interchanges through between him and Ginny.**

* * *

_Mastering the English Language- _**Chapter One: Letters One: I'll Be Your Axel If You'll Be My Marie**

* * *

Dear God-Bless-Your-Soul, 

You know, I've never really been a religious person, seeing as that I am immediately condemned to Hell for what we do at this school. But I would like to let you know that I hope God blesses you once he has chosen you as the one to receive this letter. Because he has chosen you, he has cursed you. That sounds like a contradiction, I know. Because the fact that God has even thought of you, that should be a prize in itself. But really, this letter will cause you nothing but confusion.

I have nothing better to do, you know, than to write a stupid little letter to a person who does not exist in my mind. Yes, you do not exist. Whomever is holding this letter...you, my friend (hah! After I have declared that you do not exist in my world, I can fairly use funny endearments like "my friend"), are terminally unlucky. Because, if you have not figured it out yet in your small brain (Note: Chart of Brain Size Levels: Slytherins- Merlin-like Genius, Ravenclaw: Smarter than Merlin-like Genius because we all know that those damn Ravenous pun! buggers are smarter than everyone in the entire blasted school, Hufflepuff: Pray-To-the-God-That-Has-Condemned-Me-to-Hell Stupid, Gryffindor: sub-microscopically moronic), I am a raving lunatic.

That's a lie.

I'm particularly sane. Well, a bit.

No. I _know_ I'm sane. Which is why I am doing this. Because I am creative, smart, and ingenious. I am a hybrid of houses; A Slythclaw. Not that I belong to either of these houses, Mister/Miss/I-Really-Hope-You're-Not-A-Misses Whoever-You-May-Be, because I wouldn't want you to think I am prejudiced or anything.

I would like you to know that we are nearing the end of this letter. You may think that I have only come up to the first topic, but you are wrong. We are very close to the end. But honestly...I just wanted something crazy to do. Because I'm sane and all of that.

As a lovely retreat to the end of this letter, I write that I hope that I have altered your life in some way. Maybe, as my owl descended upon your wretched soul, you were about to leap off a cliff into impending doom, but in a moment of God-given (I really need to stop this God-mocking thing) grace, you have been saved by my owl. Maybe you were off to kiss some bloke/bint who you could've ended up marrying and having too many children and ending up the miserable housewife/husband.

Or maybe it would be a terrible happening. Maybe I'd like it better that way. Maybe I wouldn't like anything at all. Maybe I just want to get some bloody attention.

With my sincerest condolences,

Keats

* * *

Dear Master of English and Grecian Urns, 

I halted your owl. I do not feel like apologizing for this. In fact, I can only hope that the awful creature comes down with an intestinal infection from eating my apple. I say this only because your owl is directly related to you, Mr. Keats. I only want to propose that you meet the same fate by dying severely at the age of 25 via tuberculosis.

Unsigned.

* * *

Dear Unsigned, 

Why would you wish me to die via tuberculosis? I don't even know what tuberculosis is. I don't even know who Keats is. I know he's a poet. And I thought it sounded interesting.

If I have offended you, I will not apologize. I am not the sort to grovel.

I am, however, surprised that you responded. Please do not do so again.

Indifferently sincere,

Sincerely Indifferent.

P.S. - Why would you wish death upon an owl.

* * *

Dear S.I., 

So much for being a Merlin-like Genius. Keats could double-time Merlin if he could. Poets have a more banal existence. To me, that is more genius.

Look tuberculosis up. It's not the most pleasant way to go.

You cannot tell a person to not respond and not expect them to respond. In fact, I know that you wanted me to directly respond to your intelligence-lacking _prose_ because you asked me a question in the end.

And I never said I would wish death upon an animal. But I do agree that to anyone who is prejudice should be punished severely. Perhaps by watching the distress of their pet.

Although, I do hope your owl is okay. She (who is infact a she?) is a very well mannered owl. I hope she never has to come upon the dangers of meeting _my _owl. _You_ on the other hand...

Unsigned

* * *

Unsigned, 

I did not ask a question. If I remember correctly, I did not end my "P.S." with a question mark. Therefore it was not a question. Stupid bint.

I did in fact look up tuberculosis. And in the process, I have refused your sympathies for my owl.

I hope your owl...dies.

Keats

* * *

Keats, 

Let me list all of what I think you are so far:

**Keats Is...: A List By Unsigned**

1. Prejudice.

2. Arrogant.

3. Self-Conscious

4. A Eunuch

5. Not Keats

6. A Hypocrite

7. A Bag of Muggle Over-Processed Meat

8. A Pillock

9. Mean

1-3, you can think about this yourself.

4- I have come to the conclusion that you are male, sexually-frustrated, and very...unable.

5. Duh.

6. How dare you criticize me for discriminating against your bird, then turn around and wish my own bird i deceased /i ! You are cruel, merciless, and I have reason to think...a leader of a torturing clan of frustrated eunuchs.

7. Starts with a B, for some reason has a G in it and is positively disgusting. I hope you smell like this for four months, eight days and twenty-two hours.

8. Uh. Yeah. I'm a bint. You're a pillock. You prick.

9. Keats was not a mean person. You do not deserve the name.

Listly.

* * *

Congratulations on getting creative enough to find a new name. But I am completely disregarding the fact that I should address you because your name isn't even a word. 

EUNUCH? Where in Twitty Twit of the Twit Named Barbara did you get _EUNUCH_? Are you off your rocker? I am a very_ un_frustrated male who is possibly the Sex God of Hogwarts. I am the furthest thing from a fucking eunuch.

And eunuchs aren't frustrated you half-brained, list-making, puddle head. There's nothing there to _get _frustrated.

Bologna? You wish me to smell like a supposedly French (possibly Austrian) sandwich meat that my mother serves daily in remembrance of her dear Aunt Rena? You're stupid.

Of course I'm a hypocrite. And I'm mean. The pillock thing is negotiable. I think you've hit the nail on the head with the prick thing.

But all in all, I'm still sane.

Keats

* * *

Keats, 

Did you just call me a _puddle-head_

Lowell

P.S. - Bologna? No, no...I'm pretty sure it sounds like Knee on the end.

P.P.S. - French and Austrian? Does This Bologna have any connections with Marie Antoinette?

* * *

What in God's Name (the one who has condemned me to eternal damnation - you, too) is Lowell? 

Yes, I called you puddle head. I couldn't come up with anything. I heard a first year use it once. I laughed for days. I had to use it with someone who wouldn't laugh for days. At my face anyway. Not that I'd care. I'd send wrathful threats upon them. Scary ones. Perhaps ones like Bologna.

And it does end with a "knee". Twit.

Marie Antoinette? As in the whore who spent France away?

Keats

* * *

Keats, 

Amy Lowell, an American poet. Wrote a really long poem called "The Cremona Violin" that I adore.

Creative _and _intelligent. Swiping a phrase from an eleven-year old. Classy, Keats.

Marie Antoinette was _not_ a whore. She was a brave queen with a good heart who was too young to reign. She was passionate, devoted, maybe a little too frivolous but you have no idea how hard Marie Antoinette fought in the end!

She lost two of her children to illness, and the other two to her enemies! How can you condemn her for her bravery? She lived ardently. She shouldn't have been blamed for that.

Besides, she was prematurely aging, how horrid is that?

Lowell

P.S.- You're mocking my insults?! _You're_ the one who called me a puddle-head! Bologna is a very frightening substance.

* * *

Lowell, 

Yes, I indeed looked up Lowell. I indeed skipped on reading that poem. But I am gleeful to point out a fact you probably already know. I am not one to be judgmental or anything, so your sexual preference is simply yours to decide on.

I didn't know someone could be so passionate about a dead person. I didn't even know someone could be that passionate about somebody _alive._

Oh, I get it. You have a thing for this Marie person. I did hear a rumor that she was gay. Maybe in the afterlife, you two can hook up.

Keats

P.S. - Horrid premature aging? Do you have something against premature aging? Hmm...are you vain enough to be agephobic?

* * *

Keats, 

What are you _on _about? Are you insinuating that Amy Lowell was gay? Because she certainly wasn't. That wasn't even heard of when she existed.

Alright, so I looked it up. Amy Lowell was definitely gay.

Not that I have anything against that. Because I don't. I'm not judgmental...unlike your sarcastic self. Because whatever her preference was, that was her decision. I am not gay. Just to let you know. Because I'm not.

Marie Antoinette was not gay. She had a lover. His name was Axel. That's a male name.

Austen

P.S. - No...I'm not afraid of getting old. I just think white hair and wrinkles are dreadful.

* * *

Austen, 

How original. I can just see you drooling over the likes of _Pride and Prejudice_ and...uh whatever else she wrote. Looking for your own Darcy?

So Marie _was_ a whore! I knew it. Sleeping around with guys with the likes of Axel.

Hey, I'll be your Axel if you'll be my Marie. What say you?

Axel

P.S. - Knew it. You're vain.

* * *

Keats, 

I will not be offended by your stereotypical judgments, but shocked that you know the main character of _Pride and Prejudice._ Classy, Keats, classy.

I will ignore your insinuations, because I know you were insinuating that I'm a whore.

You're quite the gentleman.

Austen.

P.S. - I am _not_ vain.

* * *

Austen, 

Why, thank you. I am a classy chap, aren't I?

Axel.

P.S. - Vanity is not a bad thing. It is a characteristic to cherish.

* * *

Keats, 

So, are you anything other than a rude, prejudice, and horrid prick?

Austen.

P.S. - In what world? The one of the Seven Deadly Sins?

* * *

Austen, 

Nope.

Axel.

P.S. - Remember, we're already going to Hell for doing magic.

P.P.S. - For someone who is...proper in her words (you are a she aren't you?), you curse quite a bit.

* * *

Keats, 

All I say is prick, and only when necessary. In this case, it's necessary.

I am a she, dimwit.

Austen.

P.S. - I don't know about you, but I'm not going to Hell.

P.P.S. - You are a very one-sided person.

* * *

Austen, 

My name is Axel. Get it right.

Would you rather me be two-faced, then?

Axel.

P.S. - Yes, you are.

* * *

Keats, 

No. Just the basics. I'm bored.

Favorite Colour?

Favorite Food?

Favorite Number?

Austen.

P.S. - I am not discussing the topic of Hell any longer.

* * *

Austen, 

So, now it's twenty questions? Fine.

Colour: Rainbows with polka-dotted, lace bows on top.

Food: Fried Blast-Ended Skrewts caked with marinara a la Booger-flavored Bertie Beans

Number: 2,435.5547

Axel.

* * *

Keats, 

You're a moron. Just thought I'd let you know.

Austen.


	2. I'll Be Your Bert If You'll Be My Poppin

**AN- Here's the second chapter. Probably a little more confusing than the first one, but I atleast hope it's funny. Enjoy! Thanks to my beta Genna. **

**AN2- Alright, I completely forgot to put in the spacers- sorry if that was any bit confusing. They're in there now. :)**

* * *

_Mastering the English Language _**Chapter Two: Letters Two: I'll Be Your Bert If You'll Be My Poppins**

* * *

Austen,

Way to go on the whole intelligence factor. "Moron." Original.

Favourite Colour: Blue... contrary to popular belief.

Favourite Food: Peanuts.

Favourite Number: What kind of question is that? Who has a favourite number? I guess... fine. Ten.

Your turn.

Axel.

* * *

Keats,

I wasn't going for original you arrogant prick.

I was going for "complete and utter idiot with a major narcissistic complex and a mind the size of a peacock's head." I've never actually seen a peacock's head... but I've heard they're pretty small.

Peanuts? I'm allergic to peanuts. In the sense that when I eat them I have to fight the urge to vomit. They're disgusting.

Blue is so generic. How can you like blue? Blue is the epitome of commonplace. Blue is boy, blue is sky, blue is water and ice and pens and robes and formal dressing trousers for meetings with blue people who have nothing better to do than look at blue skies and wonder why water is blue and why they themselves are so blue. Blue is not a very fun colour.

Favourite Colour: Red

Favourite Food: Sugar Quills. I don't know if they qualify as "Safe To Digest," but Merlin, am I addicted to those things.

Favourite Number: Everyone has a favourite number. I guess coming from someone who likes Blue and Peanuts can't really help but being stupid when it comes to numbers.

Mine's two.

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

I just like blue. And you like red! Red is- what's it called? Midget Muggles have to learn them in like... year .025.

Red is a primary color... that's it.

It's plain and commonplace. More so than blue. You are mindless, faux and simple.

All because you like a primary color.

You must be Gryffindor.

Axel.

P.S. - I hope your intestines shrivel up into a coil of Sugar Quill decomposition.

* * *

Keats,

Blue is a primary color, too, you halfwit!

And red is vibrant. I'd rather be red than blue.

You must be Slytherin.

Austen.

P.S. - That's mean.

* * *

Austen,

Blue is not a primary color! I know my primary colors. And blue is not one of them. It's green, yellow and red.

Axel.

P.S. - Like you said, I'm Slytherin.

* * *

Keats,

Oh. Sure. You _must_ be right.

Because Green and Yellow make...?

Austen.

P.S.- I hope you suddenly develop a peanut allergy and when you are gorging yourself on peanuts, your throat closes up and you swell like a balloon.

* * *

Austen,

Grellow?

Axel.

P.S.- You know people _die_ from peanut allergies?

* * *

Keats,

HAHA! Grellow! You're pretty stupid.

Austen.

P.S. - Oh, really? Well, in that case, I hope your throat closes up and...uhh... someone sticks their wand down your throat to open it back up?

* * *

Austen,

At least I don't like a primary color.

Axel.

P.S. Well, in that case- it will not be out of someone's absolute stupidity in trying to save me, but out of complete and utter devotion to me; I hope a Mediwitch saves your intestines from a horrible ending of Sugar Quill infections.

* * *

Keats,

You are impossible.

I have a question.

Why are we writing to each other?

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

Because out of a moment of brief insanity, I sent out a letter to the Hogwarts campus and it, unfortunately, fell into your hands.

Now, I have very little to do in my free time but to bug you, which I am positive I do. So, the fact that I am a very interesting chap to talk to and that fighting with me is in your all too bland personality keeps you writing back. It's probably a dignity thing.

A boredom thing for me.

A pride thing for you.

See, I told you that you were vain. It's still one of the Seven Sins.

Axel

* * *

Keats,

I am not vain. I told you this. I am just afraid of getting old. It is not a vanity thing.

You're Slytherin (by hypothesis), so how on earth are you affiliated with the ways of the Catholic Church?

I don't agree with your analysis, but I asked.

I think I have charmed you in my dainty and feminine ways and it keeps you writing back. I am simply just filling the time gap between ten-thirty and eleven o'clock at night a couple of times a week. Except when they get really short, that's when I'm sending them about everyday.

But really, I can't write lengthy letters to you everyday (or even every other day, for that matter), for I am a very busy person affiliated with very important things.

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

You _are _vain. Don't try and hide it. You're probably blonde, with exotically colored eyes (purple or aquamarine or something) that you're immensely proud of, but you have some terrible flaw that makes you absolutely and terribly vain. Like bad teeth.

My governess was Catholic. Old and batty she was. Her parents raised her Catholic. I think they were both Mudblood's- which still made her pureblood- which is the _only_ reason I can think of that my parents hired her. She was absolutely and completely bonkers. She talked to my toys. Ugly, too. I am pretty sure that every night she went through this...this...this phase. I swear, every time I saw her, her skin was bit greener. I think it was melting off of her face.

She'd go on and on about how I was going to hell for being so greedy and that if I didn't repent I would, "Burn in Hell for centuries and centuries in an eternal pit of black widows, cockroaches, vipers, and acidic orange juice in a room with no lights."

That Mudblood thought I was afraid of the dark. The acidic orange juice was what messed me up as a kid.

Axel.

* * *

Austen,

You didn't exactly send anything back with my owl. Wondering if you had a momentary (more than usual) prat-lapse and forgot to actually attach the letter to my owl.

Not that I care much. But I am running out of parchment (hence the fact that this is on the back of one of my first-year potions essays) and I was hoping that you'd send over a letter and I could use it for McGonagall's essay due tomorrow. Just charm the ink off, you know?

Axel

* * *

Didn't forget. Had nothing to say.

* * *

Austen,

Nothing to say about my batty old governess?

Axel

PS- Love the fact that you used a Chocolate Frog for the last letter.

* * *

No.

* * *

About the vanity comment?

PS- BB Trading Card...

* * *

No.

* * *

A Sugar Quill Label? I figured that you might use that as wallpaper.

Axel

* * *

Austen,

Okay. Why do we write to each other?

Because I'm _always _sane. I may be rebellious, stupid and occasionally heartless (and I love it), but I do it all with a sane mind. I like the fact that you could be a serial killer on the other side of the Forbidden Forest, and I am writing to my absolute and morbid demise.

And you're mad at me. A lot of people are angry with me. I don't particularly care. Because they're not worth my time. But how else am I supposed to annoy the hell out of you again if I don't know why you are currently angry with me- and so I do it again?

Axel.

* * *

You Slytherins are all the same with your names and your stereotypes. You're a prick, all the same.

* * *

Austen,

Ohhh, you're a Mudblood-picky person. You must be a Granger-advocate.

Oh, Merlin. You're not Granger, are you?

Axel.

* * *

Yes. Yes. Heavens, no.

* * *

Austen,

Thank Merlin's whore.

Axel.

* * *

Merlin's whore?

* * *

Yes, you know he had to have a few. A man with his talents?

Axel.

* * *

You're terrible. A result of your insane governess.

* * *

Austen,

Yes, a result of my verse-speaking, self-condemning, holier-than-thou governess. I haven't had orange juice in years.

Axel.

* * *

Axel,

I don't blame you. Orange juice is gross anyway.

Your parents should have hired a Mary Poppins sort of character. You know?

Austen.

* * *

Marie,

Who?

Wait, that old tale with the crazy governess with the chimney-sweep lover and over dosages of medication? My mum read me those books as a kid.

Axel.

PS- HAH! You called me Axel. Therefore- you are my Marie. Remember?

* * *

Keats,

I did not call you Axel. Calling you Axel would mean that you are my Swedish lover and I am a frivolous (but brilliant) queen.

And that, I am not.

Yes. But she was not crazy. Okay, a bit. But she seemed to be a whole lot better than your governess.

And the chimney-sweep was not her lover. The starving artist/lunatic was (who might be the same person as the chimney sweep). I think his name was Bert.

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

You did in fact call me Axel. I have the proof.

Oh, all right. I'll be your Bert if you'll be my Poppins (you've already gone by Marie. Mary wouldn't be much of a change- Besides- I can call you Poppet, now).

Bert.

* * *

Keats,

Poppet is too much of an endearment for me.

Austen.


	3. I'll Be Your Love If You'll Be My Darlin

* * *

_Mastering the English Language _**Chapter Three: Letters Three: I'll Be Your Love If You'll Be My Darling**

* * *

Austen,

Poppet is not an endearment. It's just not. It used by a guy with terrible grammar off of the streets of Muggle London with balding hair who defined the stereotypes of "the British have bloody terrible teeth." He uses poppet to seduce you into his bed. Well, he can't seduce you more than any living person can seduce a cucumber, but he tries. In which you run in fright to the safety of your dorm room and hide under those Godawful red comforters of yours.

See?

Bert.

* * *

Keats,

So, let me get this straight. You are an old slimy prick with a bad toupee and in dire need of an orthodontist whose sole dream is to shag me senseless then send me on my way?

Well, in that case, this is my last letter to you.

Ever frightened,

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

Of course not. I was just going to use poppet to freak you out. Worked didn't it?

Bert.

* * *

Keats,

Of course it did.

I'm wondering something, Keats. I was wondering if I could confide in you. I mean, you don't know my name, and I don't know who you are. It works right?

And it's not like you're going to go posting around my letters on the walls of the Slytherin common room, correct?

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

I'm not a good listener. Just to let you know. And if it's funny enough- I just might post it around the common room.

I'll make fun of you ruthlessly. Hold it against you. Make you feel like absolute shit.

But go ahead. Shoot.

Bert.

* * *

Keats,

You're a very comforting kind of person. Oddly enough, I think that's what I need right now. I need someone who will probably judge me, but I won't even have to see the consequences. Coward, I know.

This is going to sound really stupid. And I'm probably talking to the wrong person, but no one will listen. Not that I've tried. I'm waiting for someone to ask. I guess I better let it go soon.

I feel as if something dramatic doesn't happen soon, I'm going to spontaneously combust. I've got too long until I graduate. I've got too long until I'm allowed to see the world. I have to long to come of age, to be old enough, to fly, to be whatever I want. Basically, I've got too for everything.

I've gotten to the point where I can't wait for the time to come when I can open my wings and fly. Hold my breath and dive into whatever awaits me at the bottom. I want the bottom, I want the top, I want all of the peripherals.

God, I want, and want, and want. And it's not like me to want. I get what I need. Not what I want. That's my philosophy. If you wait things out long enough, the desires you want will either go away, or become strong enough to need. I stopped wanting a long time ago. Wanting only creates disaster.

But I realized that I'm always wanting. And the one thing I want the most is to get the bloody hell out of here.

I don't want to become a housewitch. I don't want to bake cookies for my children. I want to make crème brulee for Parisians. And parfaits and hors d'ouvers, tiramisu and well...everything.

It's a silly passion. But mine none-the-less.

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

That's it? I thought you were going to go on for another fifty paragraphs. I can tell you want to.

So...let me get this straight... you want to make French food for...French people...and spontaneously combust into a flaming ball of caviar and lady fingers if it doesn't happen?

You're right. It _is _a silly passion. But everyone has their own special way they want to die. If it involves ovens and sharp knives, then that's your prerogative.

Bert.

* * *

Keats,

Hah, that's not _exactly _what I was getting at. But somehow- I think that was your way of being nice.

Thank you.

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

I was not being nice. I told you to go and stuff yourself in an oven full of sharp utensils for Merlin's sake!

You have an awful interpretation.

Bert.

* * *

Keats,

Well, you didn't say that per se. But if that's what your implications were.

That's how you react to my self-pity monologue? That's pretty mean if you ask me.

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

Yes, that was what I implied. I didn't say it- but as I told you, your interpretation skills are bloody terrible.

I told you I was going to make fun of you. I don't lie. Alright, so maybe I do. But I didn't then. I'm a mean, selfish bastard. It doesn't get much worse than me.

But I suppose I do have something to say about your- whatever you called it.

You can't avoid wanting for one. I don't understand why you would want to. Want is natural. How can you not want?

I prefer want to need. Need is weak. When you need something, there's no altering it. You're just a pathetic mess who can't do anything about anything. It's just sad really. Need is not a necessity. If that makes sense.

Need turns you into a slug who just slithers around on hot pavement waiting for that moisture to return before he dies.

And that was Godawful. I'm sending it anyway.

Bert.

* * *

Keats,

I'm impressed. The Slytherin is deep.

The slug thing was...off. But interesting. I think.

I understand. But then again- how can you help need? Need is need. That slug can't help the fact that he's going to dry up before he retrieves moisture.

Want is controllable. I'd rather do away with anything that I have responsibility over.

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

I can't believe we're having a philosophical conversation. This is just too weird for me.

Bert.

* * *

Keats,

Are you running away from our conversation? When I need (yes, _need_) advice the most, you run away?

Now, that's pathetic.

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

I'm not running away. I just don't think a conversation like this is worth it. You don't _need _to hear my advice.

And honestly- my advice is- shove it and let it go. There's not much you can do about not graduating sooner. There's not much you can do about what you have set out for you. People plan your fate- and you just suck it up and take it. You can't fly, and you can't hold your breath forever. Why try so hard to live differently?

Why in Merlin's name would you even try?

Bert.

* * *

Keats,

Why would I try? Because life means more to me that just sitting around and doing what I'm told. Life means more to me that just looking at things like they don't have meaning. They're not just there to be there. Life is not this shapeless thing that you lead without hesitation.

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

Life isn't shapeless. It has exactly what people have planned out for you. You can't do anything about it.

It's not worth fighting.

Keats.

* * *

Keats,

People shouldn't run other peoples lives. It's not theirs to run.

I think you're making excuses for yourself.

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

And pray tell, what exactly am I making an excuse for? You going to give me the stereotypical Slytherin heir response? Because I've heard it before. Don't bother.

And maybe you're right.

What if I am supposed to become a Death Eater? What are you going to tell me what exactly I should do about that? Pour in as much passion into every blink, chew, scratch that I do?

Sure. I'll get right on that.

Keats.

* * *

Keats,

I'll tell you that you should do what you need. What you need to do to make you happy. If becoming a murderous, baby-killing, parent-stealing bastard will make you happy, then by all means, go for it.

But happiness shouldn't be this mythical, unobtainable object. I don't understand what happiness seems so hard for people. If you work hard enough, you'll get it.

Austen.

* * *

Austen,

Oh, please. This is coming from the girl who didn't know what she wanted to do with her life? This girl who isn't happy with what she's doing with life? The girl who can't wait to get out of here because she is so completely and utterly unhappy with how her life is going?

And not only that- but she's telling me that not only is she whining about her unsatisfying life, but she's not doing anything about it to change it. You're not working for anything. You're probably sitting in your window seat, staring at the snow-covered campus and wondering what it is to live and if you're doing right. Let me tell you something.

You're not.

Keats.

* * *

Keats,

What am I supposed to do? Drop out of school? Go to a culinary school in Paris that I can't afford? Travel the world and see everything I want while underage and out of school?

And what the _hell _are you? Some disgusting controller of fate? Who the _fuck _do you think you are to tell me I'm not living?

You tell me that need is a weakness. That passion is worthless. That not trying is bravery. You have these false ideas of life. And I can't begin to describe how completely lackluster they are. Living a life like that is worse than murdering a child. You're murdering yourself.

You live in bravado, Keats.

Look it up.

* * *

Austen,

You live in hypocrisy. You say that happiness is obtainable- but when someone tells you to go obtain your happiness you give all of the reasons you shouldn't. Now, if that's the life to live- then I most definitely want _that._

You have no idea what I believe. Don't even try. Your arguments are mute and pointless.

Bravado does not exist in my dictionary, darling.

* * *

Keats,

Then I stand by my point, _love._


End file.
